Risky Business
by sara-cupcaked
Summary: She never told him how much she enjoyed the game - stealing kisses everywhere from the morgue to Brass's office.


**A/N:** All mistakes are mine.  
Disclaimer: I do not own CSI.

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**Risky Business**

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It starts out like any other day.

Grissom hands out the slips, Greg says something that makes him frown, Catherine mumbles about getting the worst case, Warrick and Nick grin and she sits on the same couch with a hole in its left arm, sipping Greg's special coffee.

She loves order, repetition and routines.

Catherine _always_ half-storms half-walks out, Warrick _always_ follows closely behind, Nick _always _walks out with a smile and Greg is _always_ jumpy and excited. Grissom _always_ walks out with her and steals a sip of her coffee.

Grissom doesn't steal a sip of her coffee today.

"Sara, may I see you in my office please?"

She freezes, her right hand ready to offer him the cup. She nods and follows behind him, aware of the blood pounding in her ears, stopping only to close the door behind her. He settles in the leather chair and she seats herself directly in front of him, not worrying but not particularly at ease either.

Change is dangerous.

"What's up?" She asks, breaking the silence. Her expression, she knows, is nothing short of bordering on wonderment, as sitting opposite him brings nothing back but bad memories – times where the only reason he would speak to her was to inquire about her (non-existent) drinking problem or her PEAP counseling sessions.

She winces inwardly at those memories, recalling her tendency to over-talk and the guarded way he would look at her.

Bottom line, Grissom's office does not bring back any pleasant memories.

The expression he wears on his face is the face Sara considers as his infamous 'guarded expression'.

Oh no.

He's going to break up with me, she thought to herself, feeling her heart drop to her stomach and looks everywhere but at his eyes. She looks up again, doing a quick evaluation.

His lips are tight and his eyes are clouded as though he has a million things running through them and only one choice to make.

He's going to break up with me _then_ fire me.

Should I apologize? Should I just walk out? Should I –

She stops thinking the moment his lips brush against hers. As fast as she feels it, he pulls away, leaving her disorientated. Too startled to think, she blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

"What were you thinking, Gil?"

She whips her head around; convinced Hodges is watching them with a digital camera in hand or Greg outside with his mouth wide open. Her heartbeat slows down considerably after she realises that the hallway was deserted, the blinds are drawn and their little kiss will not be seen on Youtube.

She turns back to face him, anger replacing her relief. "Or rather, what were you _not_ thinking? What happened to leaving our personal relationship at home?" she hisses.

He chuckles at her livid expression, and leans back into his chair. "I've always wondered what it was like to kiss you in my office. It has always been the first thing on my mind whenever I see you in here," he explains coyly.

Her eyes soften as she absorbs his words. "Why not all those years ago?"

"You could have filled for sexual harassment," he explains matter-of-factly.

"And how are you so sure I won't press charges now?" She questions, her voice low but her eyes dancing with mirth.

"Because it's consensual," he replies, and leans forward for another kiss.

She closes her eyes and appreciates the fact that Gil Grissom, Supervisor (as spelt out in bold block letters on the plate separating them) has his lips pressed to hers, his entomological textbooks and framed insects and Miss Piggy surrounding them.

It is dangerous, surreal and oddly comforting all at once.

They break apart and he stares at her shyly, like a little boy who was caught stealing a cookie. A bubble of laughter escapes her lips as she catches sight of his flushed cheeks.

A little shake up in the order, repetition and routine of the job isn't all that bad, she thinks to herself as she kisses him while sitting on his oak desk, the paperwork that once covered the desk floating in the air around them like snow.

--

The locker room is always too dark, the air always too thick with the sickly sweet scent of Red Bull and rust. It's not strong enough to make her head spin, but it's not light enough to ignore. Everyday without fail, she holds her breath and deposits her kit and vest; thirty seconds and she's out.

When the scent of his clean soap and coffee-coated breath becomes the first thing she smells in there, she smiles. Her breath still catches in her throat, but for completely different reasons.

Thirty seconds is never enough.

--

She spends half her time at the lab in the layout room, pictures spread out in front of her. She takes refuge in the blue hue it emits, the silence it brings and the lights from under the table. Nothing about was particularly memorable, nor offending enough to make her think twice about it.

She watches him push the pictures to the floor as he holsters her onto the table, his mouth on hers. Confetti of red, yellow and grey: pictures of blood drops, yellow tape and pale bodies swirl in the blue tinged air.

She thinks about the layout room for a whole week.

--

This time, it's her turn.

She sees Doc. Robbins walk out and offers him a smile. He tells her Grissom is inside, and that he and David are off to Summerlin for Catherine and Nick's messy murder-suicide. He also tells her Grissom will fill her in on their pretty showgirl case.

Inside, he doesn't get past COD because she's kissing him amidst the dead bodies, their hot breaths almost visible in the frosty air.

She is aware the air smells like formaldehyde, that Paulina the showgirl's glassy eyes are staring at them, that broken bodies surround them. She wonders if he is aware of the presence of death.

He tells her later he has never felt so alive.

--

And so they played their little game, adding the break room and even Brass's office to their tally.

They of course, had rules for the 'game'. It was written a week after the kiss in his office, on two fancy pieces of paper; one pinned in her locker and the other kept in his locked drawer.

_Any dark, quiet place is fair play._

_The hallways, Hodges' Trace Lab and Ecklie's office are off-limits, no matter what._

Eleven months on, the game came to a grinding halt after her abduction, neither one bringing it up after that.

The locker room returned to smelling like rust and Red Bull, the layout room was never rendered messy again and the morgue returned to being a place for the dead.

--

She catches sight of him talking to Hodges, in front of the trace lab.

She calms her shaky nerves, bracing herself mentally and starts her slow but confident stride towards him.

Ten feet, six feet, two feet.

He raises his eyebrows as he sees her coming, subtly turning away from Hodges to give her his full attention.

She slips her arms around his neck, something that calms her pounding heart for a fraction of a second, and pulls him in.

She closes her eyes and presses her lips to his almost desperately, the memories and rules of their old game buzzing around in her mind.

_Not at the hallways, not in front of the trace lab and __never__ in front of Hodges._

The tears prickle behind her eyelids and she pulls away, noting the confusion on his face, mirroring hers that time she was called into his office. She presses her palms against his chest lightly, twice, feeling his heartbeat pound beneath her hands, before turning to walk away.

Only a moment ago she realises she never got around to tell him now much she loved the game, and while this is a stupid way to end it, she feels it is fitting at very least.

She, both symbolically and literally, kissed her career at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, Grissom, and the game goodbye.


End file.
